Frank & Charli

by Frank Yandolino

  Almost cut my hair,

  It happened just the other day.

  It’s getting kinda long,

  I coulda said it wasn’t in my way.

  But I didn’t and I wonder why,

  I feel like letting my freak flag fly,

  Cause I feel like I owe it to someone.

  —David Crosby, “Almost Cut My Hair”

  Copyright © 2016 by Charli Yandolino

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Cover illustration by Frank Yandolino

  ISBN: 978-1-5107-0640-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0641-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Iwould like to take this opportunity to thank Jarred Weisfeld, Bobbi and Bert Padell, Sam Blake, Maureen McKeever, Maxim Brown, and my family for their support in publishing my husband Frank Yandolino’s life story.

  I could not have published this book with out your help and I will always remember your loving friendship which made a difficult time a little easier.

  Thank you all very much.

  Charli Yandolino

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  Chapter 1: The Early Years

  Chapter 2: Drafted

  Chapter 3: The Chatsworth

  Chapter 4: Woodstock

  Chapter 5: Dominica

  Chapter 6: Tempo and the Family

  Chapter 7: Dali

  Chapter 8: Fritz

  Chapter 9: Erotic Sheets

  Chapter 10: Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin

  Chapter 11: Angels, Stones, and Pink Flamingos

  Chapter 12: Atlantis and the KKK

  Chapter 13: Riviera 76

  Chapter 14: Stuff

  Chapter 15: Japan the Tour

  Chapter 16: Mode International

  Chapter 17: Bahrain

  Chapter 18: Russia and Hardknocks

  Chapter 19: Back at Bert’s

  Chapter 20: India and “God Man”

  Chapter 21: Snow White in Happily Ever After

  Chapter 22: Marilyn Monroe and Lena

  Chapter 23: Signal to Space Concerts

  Chapter 24: Woodstock on Broadway

  Chapter 25: Charli, My Yellow Brick Road

  Chapter 26: Conclusion and Reflections

  Chapter 27: Postscripts

  Chapter 28: Affirmations

  Photo Insert

  Foreword

  Ifirst met Frank Yandolino on October 5, 2012. It was right after my first production: staging the reenactment of the infamous Marilyn Monroe skirt blowing over the subway grates scene from The Seven Year Itch in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of her passing. Erika Smith, one of the top Marilyn Monroe tribute artists in the world, wanted me to meet Frank, who was her friend and a Marilyn Monroe expert, in the hopes we would develop a Marilyn Monroe project together.

  During my initial encounter with Frank, he hands me a non-disclosure agreement and says, “Sign this!” It was akin to becoming a blood brother, and after signing I thought I’d better fasten my seat belt, because I was going to be taken on one hell of a ride. And I was! We went on this crazy journey together to develop the stage play, “Marilyn Naked.” With his vast knowledge and passion for Marilyn, I remember he immediately drilled down on the list of possible actresses to portray Monroe. He was adamant about revealing her true story with “Marilyn being spiritually, emotionally, and physically naked!”

  As a parting gift, four months before he passed away, Frank called me one day shortly before Thanksgiving (we spoke several times a week), and said, “Hey, I was thinking. How would you feel about developing Woodstock as a Broadway musical?” At this point I was a producer on four Broadway shows and had won a Tony Award for the revival of Pippin, so feeling that Broadway was in need of new productions, of course I was interested. Frank was a great “connector,” and wanted to introduce me to Michael Lang, one of his closest friends and one of the four Woodstock founding partners. However, Frank’s illness was advancing rapidly, and that introduction would sadly occur at his wake (even after his time with us Frank continues to work his special magic). I’m certain the day that the Woodstock Broadway musical opens in commemoration of the festival’s fiftieth anniversary (August 2019), Frank will be smiling looking down upon the opening night with his Freak Flag Flying. Frank’s Freak Flag still flies and now you are about to find out why in Frank & Charli.

  I had the pleasure of knowing Frank the last year and a half of his sixty-nine years; a bittersweet period. I was introduced to his wife, Charli, only three weeks before his death on March 17. Charli and I have become fast and dear friends since then. Frank was a true renaissance man. He had this great philosophy to “grab the ball” and keep as many balls in the air as possible. When I’m embarking on a new project, I can still hear his voice in my head telling me to grab the ball!

  The last time I spoke to Frank was a Friday conference call where we were discussing the Marilyn Monroe project. Frank was on speaker phone and sounded eerily far away. Frank told us not to worry, he could hear us, and participated in the call passionately and insightfully as he always did. He passed away the following Monday. I am not a religious person but I do keep Frank’s Mass card on my night stand; the reverse side positioned in a card holder (a.k.a. roach clip). It has the following poignant David Crosby lyrics:

  Almost cut my hair, it happened just the other day.

  It’s gettin’ kinda long, I coulda said it wasn’t in my way.

  But I didn’t and I wonder why, I feel like letting my freak flag fly,

  Cause I felt like I owe it to someone.

  Michael Rubenstein

  Tony Award–winning producer

  CHAPTER 1

  The Early Years

  As I got off the elevator and opened the door to my apartment, I braced myself for the attack—the jumping and the kissing, the tail waving from side to side like a speeded-up metronome, sure to be followed by another ruthless onslaught of kisses, licking, and barking.

  “OK, OK Bruno.” Bruno was named after one of my self-appointed aliases, Bruno Fataché. Bruno was my best friend. My brother. A ninety-plus-pound Grand Champion Sieger bloodline German Shepherd with his shiny jet-black coat and perfectly symmetrical tan highlights around his head and legs and four-inch tan paws, Bruno was a magnificent regal specimen. He hated other dogs, people in uniform, and anyone sitting on his end of the couch. His relationship with people was love or hate, and he could switch sides at any moment. But he was always loyal to his adopted family.

  I turned on the hall light and there she was, the girl of my dreams, Isalda, my beautiful Afghan woman. Adorning the wall just inside the front door, she was the first thing you saw after entering the apartment.

  A free, nude, long-haired blonde creatu
re resembling a mix of palomino horse and golden Afghan dog, with her own mane flowing in the wind. She glided through space on a field of flowers, following a white dove toward the end of the rainbow.

  I searched everywhere looking for the real thing. But like a vision just out of reach, she eluded me, always a step ahead. Isalda was more than an image. She was my kindred spirit.

  And everyone that saw her wanted her.

  How the hell was I to know that my creation would one day come to life?

  The huge ink and watercolor painting fit perfectly among the other treasures and tchotchkes in my haze-filled, six-room apartment on the sixth floor of the Chatsworth Building, just east of the Hudson River at the end of 72nd Street and Riverside Drive. A handmade, floor-to-ceiling, brown-stained wooden bookcase took up an entire wall. Nearly one hundred cubby holes of various sizes formed the shelves, each like a little altar for its occupant. The eyes of original ventriloquist Paul Winchell’s Jerry Mahoney dummy followed visitors as they walked in. Pictures of Mao Tse-Tung and Al Capone quietly judged. Aboriginal masks, statues, written messages, and a plaster woman’s hand with diamond rings were all eerily backlit with multicolored Christmas lights. Over the years, the bookcase grew. It now filled entire rooms of our current apartment, revealing the stories of my life and travels. Everything in there made a statement and had a story connected to it.

  What brought me to this place and time? What event started my journey? Maybe it was that horny girl my freshman year of high school.

  It was 1957. I was thirteen years old, living in Brentwood, Long Island. My family—Mom, Dad, my little brother, Jamie, and I—had just moved from Borough Park, Brooklyn. I was the new kid in school, sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when I saw this girl across the room finish writing a note. It traveled from one kid to another until the guy next to me handed it over.

  I looked at it. “What the hell is this?”

  He shrugged. I unfolded the paper and read:

  Hi. My Name is Dottie. Do you like me?

  I like you. Do you want to meet after school? Where?

  Do you want to make out with me?

  Was she kidding? Of course! So, I answered it.

  Yes I liek you. Yes I wana

  In the school yard

  Yes Yes Yes

  I didn’t realize the teacher had witnessed the entire thing. He took the note from me without saying a word. Several classes later, I heard it for the first time, screeching over the loudspeaker:

  “FRANK YANDOLINO, REPORT TO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE.”

  Hearing my name scared the shit out of me. Walking to his office felt like heading down death row. When I got there, my mother was sitting on a wooden bench with a “Frank, I am pissed” look in her eyes. Dottie was sitting on the other side of the room with her parents. I knew what was up. This girl was throwing me under the bus to save her ass.

  “He started the note. I just answered it,” she said, not looking at me as she spoke. I wanted to give her the finger. “That’s bull,” I yelled.

  “You’re a liar.”

  It went back and forth until the principal couldn’t take it anymore. Looking over the note, he had a great idea. “Let’s have them write the note again.”

  That was the first time my dyslexia saved my life. There was no denying who wrote what. In my world, words move around like a shell game. When I was in high school, no one really knew what dyslexia was, who had it, or how to treat it. My mother and father didn’t understand it or believe that I had it. They saw it as a poor reflection on them, and didn’t want the guilt of having spawned what to them seemed to be a genetically damaged child. But I couldn’t have been more loved; my parents showered all of their children with affection. They couldn’t do enough for us. We came first and we knew it.

  There were no books in my house, and growing up no one read to me except nursery rhymes like Old MacDonald’s Farm, Little Red Riding Hood, and The Three Little Pigs, so it makes sense that my dyslexia went unnoticed. In school I was considered slow by teachers and quiet by classmates. My biggest fear was having my name called to read out loud or come up to the dreaded blackboard. That blackboard felt like being put on trial.

  Looking back, I wonder how my frequent mispronunciations didn’t tip anybody off. Sometimes I would read and write the wrong words entirely. Wouldn’t became would, couldn’t was could, wasn’t looked like was, 683 became 368, and so on.

  My world of words and numbers looked like a bowl of Campbell’s Alphabet Soup. As you can imagine, I got many things wrong, and didn’t do well on tests, especially with reading and math. My inferiority complex continued to grow and I developed zero social skills.

  Never wanting to expose myself or be ridiculed, I did the best I could to camouflage my fear by becoming the class clown.

  Not until my senior year in high school did I truly discover the root of my problem and realize that my struggles and poor grades were not because I was stupid. I began training my eyes and brain to slow down by scanning sentences and focusing on the words. Today I still struggle with dyslexia (just ask my editor!), but I have worked hard to overcome the problem. I can now read a book or two in one day; back then it would have taken at least a week. I have written screenplays, books, stories, countless contracts, and proposals. In a way, dyslexia saved my life. It ultimately forced me to develop a career based around art and creativity, to become an artist—or as I prefer to call myself, a “producer”—to be able to use the creative side of my brain. This ultimately freed me from my insecurities and shortcomings. I gained confidence and became more awake, more aware, and, most importantly, more willing to take chances and risks. Being creative felt better and was easier than trying to be an academic wiz. In fact, tapping into my creative side inspired me to work harder. I began to read things over and over. I became the king of underlining, and I still underline everything so that I remember the important parts of what I read.

  I have come to learn of people who overcame dyslexia to achieve great things, like Albert Einstein, Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Graham Bell, Pierre Curie, Richard Branson, and scores of others. I’m sure there are those out there who don’t even know they have it.

  As my career developed, and I began to conquer my disability, I formed a company, Interconnections, Inc. Fittingly, the company’s purpose was to introduce interactive voice technology to the masses. It was during this time that my dyslexia and social skills troubled me the most, especially at meetings, reading documents out loud, and giving PowerPoint presentations out loud. The emergence of social networking and the spread of live chats and meetings on the computer via text and email only made it worse. I remember sweating through plenty of those meetings. Luckily, I was able to purchase a laptop computer that allowed me to dictate to it. It transcribed the words I spoke to type, and it spelled way better than I ever could. I could even take my handwritten notes and scribbles and convert them to spell check–corrected type. I am using it now as I write this book and have used it to write other books, screenplays, and stories. So I’ve grown able to understand my problem and develop my own system of managing it.

  On our way home after my trip to the principal’s office and my three-day suspension, Mom threatened me with one of her standard lines.

  “Wait till your father finds out, after two days in a new school you get suspended for writing dirty notes.” But much to my surprise, Dad did not explode. He simply said, “He didn’t start it … that’s what boys do.” What? I thought. That’s it? That’s all he has to say? Okay … next!

  A couple of years later, when I was a senior, I got that same cold sweat feeling as the loudspeaker blasted out:

  FRANK YANDOLINO, REPORT TO YOUR GUIDANCE COUNSELOR.

  Shit, what now? When I arrived at her small, one-desk, two-chair office, she got right down to business. Motioning for me to have a seat next to her, she caught my downward gaze as she crossed her legs. Quickly adjusting her miniskirt, she barked out, “Frank, you’re failing alge
bra.”

  I can still see the pity in her eyes, but her announcement was not a surprise. In my head, numbers and letters were still salsa dancing to my brain’s unique beat. Nonetheless, I had applied to Northwestern University for a civil engineering degree. Never mind that I hardly even knew how to spell “civil engineer,” let alone what a civil engineer did. Hell, the only thing I knew about Northwestern was that it was probably north and west of somewhere.

  “Northwestern said they are interested in you. However, you have to pass all your courses.” She looked through her folders. “You could drop algebra.”

  “I could? I’ll do that.”

  “Well, yes. You could take wood shop instead, or … art?”

  At the time I had never done much of anything artistic. But I did know I didn’t want to get sawdust all over me (I was chosen best-dressed kid by my class), so I picked art. This decision not only would end up being the right one for my grades, but it would drastically influence the rest of my life. For that I have to credit Mr. Vega, my fabulous art teacher, who encouraged me to pursue what he saw came naturally to me, using my mind to create rather than to spell or add. Mr. Vega quickly became my mentor. Painting and drawing came fairly naturally to me. Seeing something in my brain, then putting it on paper was much easier than the reverse.

  My first work of art was a black-and-white pen and ink-stippled drawing of a shirtless dark-skinned peasant farmer standing in a field of tall grass while grazing his two water buffalo, one white, one black. Viewing the drawing up close you could see what looked like a million pen strokes and dots of various sizes that formed the picture, while from afar the image looked like a black-and-white halftone with shades of gray. Mr. Vega submitted my piece to a Long Island Student Art Exhibition. I won first prize and a gold medal. I grabbed the opportunity, said yes, I can do this, and kept at it. My next painting was oil on canvas board, of two boxers, one black and one white, pounding the crap out of each other while the referee looks on. That painting also won me a first prize and an interview at the Pratt Institute’s School of Art and at Parsons School of Design. Pratt didn’t accept me; I didn’t have a track record in fine art. Forget track record—I didn’t even know what fine art was or who painted it. I really didn’t know much at all about this art world. All I did was copy what I saw printed in magazines and add my style to it.